Chapter 9 - INSIDE THE LION'S DEN
The heavy mahogany doors of the Obsidian Club’s private penthouse suite were reinforced with steel, but they were no match for the C4 charges Enzo pulled from his tactical bag.
"Clear the hallway," Enzo instructed the two surviving guards who had pulled up behind them.
Harper pressed herself flat against the reinforced concrete wall beside the entrance, her finger resting lightly on the trigger of her Glock, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Enzo armed the detonator, stepping back beside her.
"Fire in the hole," he muttered, pressing the button.
*Boom.*
The massive doors blew inward in a concussion of splintered wood, blinding smoke, and screaming alarms.
Enzo moved through the smoke first, his Beretta barking twice as two armed guards inside the suite dropped before they could raise their weapons.
Harper followed closely behind him, stepping over the threshold into a lavish, dimly lit penthouse lounge overlooking the frozen expanse of Lake Michigan.
Seated around a massive mahogany conference table were four men in custom-tailored Italian suits—the very capos who had sworn loyalty to the DeLuca family, and the very men who had sold out Nathan to Preston Whitcomb.
At the head of the table sat none other than Preston Whitcomb himself, holding a crystal glass of scotch, looking remarkably calm for a man whose empire was burning to the ground.
"Well, well," Preston chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he looked at Enzo and Harper standing in the ruined doorway.
"I always knew my ungrateful daughter was a traitor, but bringing her killer home to dinner? That is a new low, even for you, Harper."
Enzo’s face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.
He raised his gun, pointing it directly between Preston’s eyes.
"Your game is over, Preston," Enzo’s voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the penthouse.
"You killed my brother. And these traitors at your table helped you do it."
One of the capos—a heavy-set man named Salvatore with slicked-back gray hair—slowly stood up from the table, a nervous smile playing on his lips.
"Now hold on, Boss," Salvatore stammered, raising his hands pacifyingly.
"We were just... negotiating. Preston forced our hands—"
*Bang.*
Enzo didn't hesitate. A single bullet caught Salvatore square in the chest, sending him crashing backward over his leather chair into the glass display cabinets behind him.
The remaining three capos froze in absolute terror, too paralyzed to reach for the weapons holstered beneath their suit jackets.
"Anyone else want to negotiate?" Enzo asked quietly, the silence in the room becoming suffocating.
Preston Whitcomb took a slow, deliberate sip of his scotch, setting the glass down on the table with a soft *clink*.
"You can kill me, Enzo," Preston smiled, a cold, mocking expression in his eyes.
"But you'll never find the offshore accounts. And more importantly... you'll never know the real reason why Nathan had to die."
Enzo stepped forward, the barrel of his gun inches from Preston’s forehead.
"Tell me," Enzo whispered dangerously.
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"Nathan wasn't killed because of financial debt," Preston laughed softly, leaning back in his chair.
"He was killed because he found out that the woman standing right beside you... was the one who ordered the hit."
